


all tomorrow's parties

by inkk



Category: Metallica
Genre: Bartenders, Fluff, Halloween, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, body glitter, the visceral power of wearing tiny shorts and nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27319279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk
Summary: “Long night?” James guesses.“Yeah,” Lars agrees, rubbing at one eye. His fingers come away dusted with gold and he snickers. “Hate to say it, but I think I’m getting a little too old to go bar-hopping in gold spandex booty shorts.”happy halloween!
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 13
Kudos: 30





	all tomorrow's parties

**Author's Note:**

> me, sitting in a shitty strip mall foodcourt on my break from work, a google search for "what kind of underwear under unlined leather pants male" in one tab and an HD picture of james hetfield's ass in another: 👀
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE!!!!! this was originally supposed to be posted last night, but then shit happened and i decided to drown my sorrows instead :-( sorry :-( it's a little late, and also somehow way longer than i intended it to be.  
> title has nothing to do with [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qB1yUXBzUjA) other than... i like it.
> 
> based on [this prompt from anon](https://shotgunmessiahs.tumblr.com/post/632071958891216896/i-love-myself-a-good-bartenderpatron-trope-and): "i love myself a good bartender/patron trope, and halloween wise, one day the bartender sees patron in not their day to day work clothes but FINALLY something different and it happens to be Really slutty on halloween so then patron gets hit on and subsequently rescued by bartender"  
> ... so of course i went ahead and made it james/lars, and then i threw in an age difference just for fun. i had kind of a 2012 james vibe in mind while writing, as well as kind of a '96 lars, if he was 24 & way less rampantly obnoxious ;-)

+

By the time Rocky comes walking in, it’s almost time for last call. The bar’s nearly empty and midnight has long since come and gone. Rob left a few hours ago to tuck his kids into bed, so now it’s just James behind the bar and Cliff in the back office, the last few patrons seated at the tables further back.

James pauses his tidying to watch as the small guy in a blond wig and gold booty shorts takes a seat at the bar. Despite his small stature and pale-bordering-on-pasty skin, James thinks he’s managed to pull off a fairly recognizable imitation of the real thing.

“Be with you in just a second,” James tells him with a smile, setting his towel aside and sidling a few steps over to the sink. He washes his hands and dries them quickly. “So, how’s your night going?”

“Not bad, man,” Rocky replies, “Thought I’d make one last stop before the walk home.”

It’s the accent that makes James do a double take. He blinks. “Lars?”

Rocky’s mouth tilts up into a smirk, eyes lighting up, and oh, yeah, James would recognize those lips anywhere. “You didn’t recognize me?”

“Not until you spoke, no,” James admits, leaning closer up against the bar. “Wow. It’s very, uh…” he trails off, searching for the word and drawing a blank, “...Nice. You look nice.”

“Thanks,” Lars laughs and cocks his head, his platinum-blond wig shimmering under the light. “You look the same as always.”

“Dressing up ain’t exactly my thing,” James shrugs. “So, what can I get you?”

Lars bites his lip a second. “A scotch and soda would be great, please.”

“Coming right up.”

Lars is a bit of a regular here. James’ favourite, if he’s being honest — he’s kind of a weird, chatty little film studies grad student, but he’s fun to talk to, and he always leaves a good tip. He usually comes in wearing pants and shirts, though; the shirtless-and-body-glitter look is definitely new.

“So, you got a Frank N. Furter with you tonight?” James asks over his shoulder, his fingers closing around the familiar shape of the whiskey bottle.

Lars sighs. “I did, at one point,” he says. “I think he went home with someone about two bars ago, but I could be remembering wrong.”

James turns back to the bar and pours a slightly generous two ounces, watching in his periphery as Lars curls his fingers into the platinum strands of the wig and tugs it off. It falls to the bar with a soft thump, lifeless and deflated. Lars’ normal mid-length brown hair has been pulled back into a tight ponytail beneath. There’s a line indented into his forehead where the wig was resting, which some part of James finds oddly endearing. He finishes mixing the drink and nudges it forwards.

“Sorry,” Lars shakes his head absently, pulling the wig into his lap. “It’s been…” he trails off.

“Long night?” James guesses.

“Yeah,” Lars agrees, rubbing at one eye. His fingers come away dusted with gold and he snickers. “Hate to say it, but I think I’m getting a little too old to go bar-hopping in gold spandex booty shorts.”

James laughs — a real one, not just the one he uses to appeal to customers. “Never too old."

“Well, what about you?” Lars prods.

James crosses his arms and leans his forearms on the bar. “What about me?”

“You're not dressed up at all,” Lars makes a vague up-and-down gesture. “That's no fun.”

Beneath Lars’ slumped, burnt-out look, there’s a sharp, engaged glint to his eye that makes James look away. “Well, I don't think anyone wants to see me in gold spandex booty shorts these days,” he demurs with a good-natured chuckle.

Lars’ eyebrows tick up a little. James watches as he picks up his drink and drags the straw around in a lazy clockwise rotation.

“I bet you’d make a killer cowboy,” he remarks after a second, the ice cubes clinking slightly as he stops stirring long enough to take a sip. “What, with the incessant dark-and-mysterious leather daddy shtick, and all.”

James casts a glance down at himself. Black leather boots, black leather pants, black leather vest over a black T-shirt. "What’s wrong with leather?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Lars assures him, mouth twisting into an impish little grin. “But it sure wouldn’t kill you to shake it up one day out of three-sixty-five.”

James just shakes his head, amused. “Trust me, you don't want to see me playing dress-up. I think the last time I put on a costume was for Pride back in ‘04, and let me tell you, the tutu didn’t fit as well as it did when I was twenty-five.”

“Oh, I’d definitely kill to see that,” Lars says with a little cackle. He takes another sip of his drink and sets it down, then reaches up to untie his ponytail. “You guys been busy tonight?”

James watches him rake his fingers through his hair, expertly rearranging the stiff mess until it lies somewhat flat, just barely brushing at his shoulders. He shrugs. “Busier earlier on, but not too bad. It’ll be last call in,” he rotates his wrist to check his watch, then blinks in surprise, “Now, actually. ‘Scuse me for a sec.”

He moves around to the other side of the bar, where he flicks the lightswitch on and then off again. “Last call, everyone, we’re locking up in ten,” he announces, already reaching for the stereo. It’s Cliff’s iPod that’s hooked up to the speakers tonight, and he only has to scroll for a second before he finds a suitably mellow playlist. James hits shuffle, letting the opening notes of _Tuesday’s Gone_ ring out through the bar with a distinct feeling of relief. It’s almost four in the morning, and all he really wants to do right now is go home, take a shower, and fall into bed until noon.

“Can I get you one last drink?” he offers upon his return, pointing to Lars’ now-half-empty glass. Part of him feels a little bad about rushing the guy out the door as soon as he got here.

Lars shakes his head. “This is good for me, thanks,” he declines, raising the straw to his lips. He takes another long pull and lowers his eyes, propping his elbows up on the counter and dragging a hand through his hair. There’s a hint of gold dusted across his soft cheeks, shimmering beneath the dark fan of his eyelashes, a few leftover sparkles seeming to dance across his bare chest in the dim light.

James averts his gaze. He reaches for a damp cloth and sets about tidying the other end of the bar.

He doesn’t see the guy approach Lars at first — not until at least a minute or two later, when he hears the sound of ice cubes skittering across the bar and hitting the floor. James whips around to see the remnants of Lars’ drink dripping off the counter, his hands lifted in a weak gesture of surrender against the tall, skinny asshole leaning into his personal space. James sees the hand on Lars’ bare shoulder. He sees the way Lars is cringing back, curling in on himself. He feels something ignite in the pit of his stomach.

“Hey!” he barks out, drawing himself up to his full height. “Did you spill his drink, man?” He motions to the puddle on the bar.

Asshole’s eyes flick sideways, a nervous kind of grin popping up on his face, but he doesn’t let go of Lars. Out of the corner of his eye, James sees a few other patrons glance back on their way out. “We’re just talking, man, it’s not—”

“He was just leaving,” Lars cuts in, trying to peel the guy’s hand off his shoulder.

Asshole doesn’t take the hint. “Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that,” he says, leaning in even further. He says something else, but his face is tilted away and James doesn’t quite catch it. All he sees is the responding flush that rises to Lars’ cheeks, his eyes flashing with anger as his lips tighten into a thin line of repulsed displeasure.

James is rounding the bar and making a beeline towards the guy before he can even stop to think about it. Lars’ mouth opens just long enough to say “Get your hand off of me,” and then James’ fist curls into the back of Asshole’s plaid shirt and yanks, hard.

The way the guy flails backwards is almost comical. James keeps him upright, taking advantage of his surprise to march him a few steps sideways. “That’s enough,” he says with stony authority, letting go with a slight shove. “I want you out, you hear me? We’re closed for the night.”

“Fuck you,” Asshole narrows his eyes. His gaze flicks over to Lars, then back to the fury on James’ face. He stands there a moment longer, indecisive, then spits on the ground and stalks out with another litany of creative curses.

James exhales. He watches the door slam closed and lets his shoulders relax, fists unclenching. It’s rare that he has to get physical with customers here, but fuck, every once and a while, they deserve it. Fuck. He turns back to Lars with a concerned frown. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Lars says, “I’m fine.” His voice is uncharacteristically quiet, cheeks pink with frustrated anger, and James feels a muscle in his jaw tighten.

“I should have stepped in sooner,” he shakes his head as he walks back around the counter. He stoops to pull a cloth from the bucket of cleaning solution and wrings it between his fists, then sets about mopping up the spill. “I’m sorry. I should have been paying more attention. Creeps like that never take no for an answer, it just makes me—”

“Hey,” Lars cuts in, one pale hand alighting on James’ tattooed forearm. James freezes mid-wipe. “I’m fine, okay? Thank you for intervening. I probably should have put some clothes on if I didn’t want the attention.” He shoots James a small, tired smile, and James just shakes his head again.

“A guy like that could harass a grandpa in a snowsuit,” he grouses. “Whatever he said to you, don’t waste your time thinkin’ about it.”

“I won’t,” Lars says with a little laugh. His hand drops from James’ arm and he twists a little on his stool, fishing around in one tiny pocket. “I should, um. I should probably get going, though. It’s getting late, I know you guys are closing up. And here's, uh...” He holds out a ten-dollar bill between his index and middle fingers. 

It takes a second for James to realize he's trying to pay for his drink, and then he shakes his head and keeps cleaning. "On the house," he says, his tone brooking no refusal.

Lars gives an exaggerated huff and stows his money.

“You want me to call you a cab, or something?” James offers, glancing in the direction of the exit. The rest of the people have cleared out, and it’s just the two of them left.

“No, it’s not worth the money," Lars waves a hand, "I’m just a couple blocks away." 

Something in James’ stomach twists a little with misgivings. “Maybe walking isn't the best idea tonight,” he says neutrally, bending to loading the empty glass into the dishwasher. “Sometimes it’s best to be on the safe side, y’know.”

His meaning is clear enough. Lars pauses, looks towards the door where the guy stormed out, then nods and rubs at his forehead, looking even more exhausted than before. “Fuck. I guess you’re right.”

“I can give you a ride,” James offers, before he can think twice about it. “Or pay for a cab, or an Uber, or whatever. Y’know. If you’re not comfortable with that.”

Lars gives him a long, searching look. “You really don’t have to…” he starts slowly, but James cuts him off with a dismissive wave.

“I know. I don’t mind. I’ll sleep better if I know you got home safe.”

Lars ducks his head a little and bites his lower lip, considering. “Okay,” he finally agrees. “I’d appreciate a ride, as long as it’s not too far out of your way.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I’ll just be another half hour with the cleaning, then Cliff can finish locking up.”

Lars waits patiently at the bar as James runs through the rest of his usual closing routine. He flicks off the open sign, clears the last three tables and tidies the bathrooms in record time, then counts the till and sanitizes the sinks. The rest of the sweeping and mopping can be done tomorrow before opening.

“Hey,” Cliff calls from the office as James is coming in from taking out the trash, “Is Rocky goin’ home with you?”

James pokes his head into the little back room to see Cliff pointing to Lars on the security camera monitor.

“Yeah, I offered him a ride. Thought it might be safer, y’know, just in case…”

Cliff eyes him with a plain, assessing gaze. “Yeah, I saw what happened. Looked like a real fuckin’ dickhead, if you ask me. Glad you were there to handle it.” He leans back in his office chair a little further, his long, skinny legs stretched out before him. “You two can head out, I’ll take care of whatever’s left.”

James dips his chin in a nod. “Appreciate it. G’night, Cliff.”

“Happy Halloween, James,” Cliff tells him as he turns to leave. “You think next year’ll be the year you finally wear a costume?”

“Not likely,” James chuckles. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lars stands up to meet him as he emerges.

“All ready to go?” James asks, grabbing his coat and keys from his cubby behind the bar. “I’m just parked out the side door over there.”

Lars makes a little ‘after you’ gesture. He follows after James, hurrying to match his strides as he leads them down the back hallway.

“You got a coat?” James thinks to ask as he pushes the door open, a gust of cold air greeting then as they step into the back alley.

Lars shakes his head. Poor kid’s already breaking out in goosebumps. Without really thinking about it, James pushes his lined denim jacket into Lars’ chest. “Put that on,” he insists firmly. “I won't have you shivering to death while the car warms up.”

Lars opens his mouth, then closes it, clearly thinking better of refusing. He pulls the jacket on without protest. It looks about three sizes too big; the body reaches almost mid-thigh on him, the sleeves hanging limply past his hands. He looks up at James and laughs, tucking it closer to his body.

Something twinges in James’ gut. Lars looks small and pretty like this, with his eyelids glimmering in the low light as they emerge from the mouth of the alley.

_Christ. Get a hold of yourself, Hetfield._

He holds Lars’ door open for him, because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, but he’s conscious not to physically help him inside like he would in a different context. This isn't that kind of night, he reminds himself. This is just Bartender James, playing chauffeur to a tired grad student who just got harassed at a bar under his watch.

“So, where am I taking you?” James asks as he climbs in on the drivers’ side, fastening his seatbelt. He immediately turns the key in the ignition and cranks the heat.

Lars rattles off the directions and James nods in confirmation. “Yeah, I know the area. There’s that bakery just down the street, right? I used to go there all the time. Best damn honey crullers in the city.”

His own apartment is conveniently only three blocks past it, but he doesn’t bring that up for fear of making Lars uncomfortable.

The truck heats up quickly as James pulls out of the small staff parking area. Lars seems to relax a little in the passenger seat. “So, how long have you worked at Goodhandy’s?” he asks, filling the silence between them. James is grateful for it.

“Coming up on seven years, now, ever since Cliff bought the place from the last owners,” he answers easily, flicking on the turn signal and looking both ways. “It’s a good place to work, for a guy like me. Pays the bills just fine.”

“D’you get free booze?”

James shrugs. “Staff discount, sure. I’ve been sober for about ten years, though.”

He doesn’t have to look over to know the way Lars’ eyebrows have raised. “Wow, that’s a long time,” Lars replies after a beat. “Is that… Hard? Doing what you do for a living, I mean?”

James considers it. “Yes and no,” he answers truthfully. “I see the best and worst sides of it. The temptation’s still there, sometimes, but it gets easier as the time goes by.”

“I get that,” Lars nods. He fidgets a little, foot bouncing against the floor mat. “Hey, can I ask… When you said— Does that mean you and Cliff are, uh…?”

That one gets a grin out of James. “Naw, Cliff’s about as straight as they come,” he says with a little laugh. “Married, too. He’s a good boss, though. We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

“Straight guy running a gay bar?” Lars grins as they pull up to a red light, “What’s the logic behind that?”

“Couldn’t quite tell you.”

Lars goes quiet for a moment. James looks over to see him looking out the window, upturned nose poking out from behind his still-unruly hair. The streetlights cast him in a yellow glow. When he turns back towards James his face falls into shadow, his green eyes seeming almost black.

“Thanks for the ride, by the way,” Lars says. “It’s, um. It’s really nice of you to offer.”

James looks away. The light turns green and he accelerates across the intersection. “Don’t sweat it, kid. It’s no problem.”

“No, you’re really— You seem like a nice guy, James.”

James spares him another quick, curious glance, then redirects his attention to the front windshield. “Well, I try my best,” he chuckles, keeping his tone light. “It’s probably the least I can do, after all the tips you’ve left me.”

A long, tortured moment extends between them. For a second it seems like Lars is going to say something, but then he just exhales a faint huff of amusement. “Yeah,” he finally says, looking back out the window, “Yeah, I guess there’s that.”

They drive another minute or two in silence. James readjusts his grip on the steering wheel, trying to think of something to talk about; if this were a date, James might steer the conversation towards family. If he and Lars were closer in age, he might try music. As it is, he’s trying his hardest not to come across as creepy, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to make himself seem any older than he already feels. Somehow, despite all the casually flirtatious conversations he’s had with Lars over the past year, it still feels awkward to be alone like this.

James clears his throat. “So, you mentioned you’re in a film studies program, right?”

“Yeah, I’m working on my Masters right now. It’s going well. Pretty much just the same old, y’know.”

James never attended any kind of postsecondary, but sure, he thinks he has enough of an idea of what that means. “Any idea what you’re gonna do with that shiny new degree?”

Lars laughs. “Not a fuckin’ clue, man.” It’s more like a giggle, really — a weird, high-pitched cackle that James has begun to find more and more familiar. It’s a nice sound. A comfortable one.

“Is it on the next right?” James asks, pointing to the turn coming up ahead. He knows full well that it is — his barber is on the same street — but it seems like a natural thing to ask.

Lars straightens up a little as they get close, his left knee jumping. James takes the corner smoothly and lets Lars point the building out to him. He pulls into an empty spot a few cars back from the front door.

“Well,” he starts, at the same time Lars says “James—”

They both stop themselves.

“Sorry,” James says.

“No, it’s— Fuck.”

James’ brows draw down just a little. The look on Lars’ face is— troubled. His heel ticks quietly away in time with his bouncing knee. “You okay?” James asks.

“Yeah,” Lars wipes a hand down his face. “Yeah, I’m... Yeah. Sorry. I should…”

He’s quiet for another moment, but he doesn’t make any move to get out.

“Do you,” he finally says, then hesitates and gives a pouty little exhale. “Oh, for helvede,” he mutters. “Look, do you want to come upstairs?”

James stares. “I’m sorry?”

“For sex,” Lars clarifies firmly. “Do you want to come upstairs with me for sex.”

The second time, it’s far more determined and far less of a question. James blinks in surprise and shifts a little in the driver’s seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. "Oh," he says awkwardly. “Lars, if this is some kind of repayment thing, I really don’t—”

“No,” Lars interrupts with an adamant shake of his head. “No, it’s not— It’s not a repayment thing, it’s an ‘I think you’re hot and I have a weakness for male bartenders who wear a lot of leather’ thing. So, like. Take it or leave it, y’know.”

Jesus Christ. The kid just flat-out propositioned James for impromptu intercourse at four-thirty in the morning and he isn’t even blushing.

“Uh,” James says, staring at his knuckles on the steering wheel as he gathers his thoughts. He feels stiff and frozen in place. This was not in the plan at all.

Fuck, is he dreaming?

An eternity seems to tick by before Lars’ hand lands on his forearm, reining him in the same way it did back at the bar. His fingers feel cool against James’ skin. “You're overthinking the offer,” he says, amused.

James meets his eyes with an expression that’s probably bordering on woeful. "It's..." He takes a long, slow breath. "God, you're beautiful.”

Lars’ cherubic lips split into a wide grin, his teeth flashing vividly in the dark. His hand slides up James’ arm to his right hand, lifting it off the wheel and bringing it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his tattooed knuckles. It's unspeakably tender.

“C’mon,” Lars says quietly, “Let me take you home, uh? Let me take care of you.”

“I’d like that,” James says, once he finally finds his voice.

They barely make it through the apartment door before Lars is all over him. He shrugs James’ jacket off and pushes James back up against the hall closet, grabbing him by the lapels of his vest and raising up onto his toes. James’ hands reflexively raise to his hips, hovering lightly against the waistband of those tiny little shorts as Lars leans in to kiss him senseless.

“Fuck,” Lars pants between them, his breath hot against the stubble of James’ cheek. “Seriously, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

He laughs, sounding giddy. When James kisses him again, deep and slow, he can feel the way Lars’ lips curl into a smile to mirror his own.

“Let’s,” Lars mumbles eagerly, “Couch, c’mon, I wanna—”

He pulls back and grabs James by the hand, pulling him over to the small living room and pushing him down onto the couch. He urges James’ legs apart and sinks to his knees between them in one smooth motion, and James _swears_ all the air spontaneously evaporates from the room. He doesn't even have time to feel self-conscious about the softness of his belly before Lars is attacking the fly of his pants with single-minded speed and determination.

“Shit,” he breathes, lifting one hand to rest against the side of Lars’ head, the tips of his fingers resting at the base of Lars’ skull. Lars nudges into the touch, looking up at him with a pleased little smile as he pries James’ pants open wide.

“Is this okay?”

James swallows, nods. His eyes are probably completely glazed over by now. “God, yeah. It’s… Whatever you want.”

Lars’ grin grows. “Good, ‘cause I want this.”

He shoulders his way a little further into the vee of James’ thighs and slides his skinny fingers under the waistband of James’ black briefs, tugging them down just enough that he can pull James’ cock out. James’ abdomen tenses as Lars leans in, hot breath ghosting over his pelvis.

His next inhale goes shuddery with pleasure. His thighs flex, heels pushing into the floor as Lars gently mouths over him. He’s stroking the rest with one fist, looking up at James through his lashes, and it’s— Jesus, it’s like the most goddamn pornographic thing James can think of. Lars’ big green eyes are heavy-lidded behind his messy hair, glitter still glinting off his skin, cheeks hollowed and lips stretched wide.

It’s been a hell of a long time since anyone looked at James that way, least of all with their mouth on his dick. He gently brushes the hair out of Lars’ face and lets his hand drop, lingering at the side of his neck where it meets his shoulder. “Shit, kid.”

Lars drops his gaze and bobs his head, pushing down a little further. His free hand comes up to grip at James’ thigh and James covers it with his own. His cock is starting to get slick with spit as Lars gains speed, tightening his fist and twisting on the downstroke, and it occurs to James that this might not last very long. It’s almost a relief when Lars eventually has to pull off to catch his breath. His chest is heaving a little with the effort, parted lips red and shiny with saliva. James gives his hand a light squeeze and he looks back up, smiling with that unique brand of inexhaustible eagerness. His tiny gold shorts are tented around his erection.

James’ mouth goes dry. “C’mere,” he beckons.

Lars comes. He lets go of James’ dick long enough to clamber up off of the floor and into James’ lap instead, his knobby knees splaying wide around James’ hips. He leans in, hands finding James’ shoulders, and meets his mouth without hesitation. The hot slide of his tongue is downright filthy. James’ hands alight on his waist and the soft, warm skin there, and then creep lower to his hips, and then finally slide down to grip his ass. Lars makes a breathy little moan against his mouth and rocks his hips forward, seeking friction.

Lars feels strange tiny, like this; he’s all pale skin and lean muscle, skinny thighs and sparse chest hair dusted in gold body glitter, like the epitome of every single twinky kid James has ever admired in passing except _better_ , because his hair’s a mess and his makeup is falling off and he’s sitting in James’ lap, squirming for attention. 

James drops his lips to Lars’ neck and presses a kiss to the smooth, fair skin there. He can feel the hum that travels up Lars’ throat, can hear the way he gasps and tilts his head to the side for better access. It’s intoxicating.

Fuck, James wants to mark him up. Wants to leave big, fat, red-and-purple hickeys all over him, wants to mouth at his jaw and nip at his sharp collarbones and kiss down his chest and eat him out until he fucking cries.

Lars moans again, redirecting his attention. James squeezes his ass one more time and then lets go, thumbing at the ridges of his hipbones and then tucking his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. Lars takes the hint and rises up on his knees, helping James push them down and off. They hit the floor with a weak thump and James wastes no time taking Lars’ dick in hand. He jacks him slow and smooth, feeling the gentle roll of foreskin beneath his palm. Lars drops his head against James’ neck and gasps, hips rocking into the motion of it.

“James,” he chokes out. “Fuck, do it faster, don’t fucking tease.”

God, he's bossy.

James obliges with a grin, pressing kisses to the side of Lars’ face he can reach. His pace only falters a little when Lars worms a hand between them to take hold of James’ cock, matching his rhythm. The synchronicity of it — the two of them gasping in time, stroking in time, mouths and tongues and moans meeting feverishly in the middle — is unbelievably intimate. The room is quiet except for their breathing and the sound of skin on skin.

“Shit, James, so fucking—”

“Yeah, baby, c’mon—”

“—don’t know if—”

“Look so pretty like this, so fucking gorgeous—”

“Fuck, James, I’m gonna—”

“Hang on,” James lifts his unoccupied hand to the small of Lars’ back, urging him even closer. He hauls Lars in until their knuckles are brushing and Lars takes the hint to let go, and then clumsily spits in his hand and wraps one big fist around the two of them.

Whatever high-pitched, needy string of words comes tumbling out of Lars’ mouth, it’s not in English. James barely gets half a dozen more strokes in before Lars shudders and comes into his fist. The slick heat of it just adds more slide, the tension of it building in James’ spine, and he follows suit just as Lars is working himself through it, hips still pushing in short little movements.

They slow and come to a natural stop, slumping into the couch as their breathing returns to normal.

“Fuck,” Lars is the first to speak, his face buried in James’ shoulder. “Did that seriously just happen?”

“The mess on my shirt says yes.”

Lars giggles. “God, I probably got glitter, like, all over you, dude.”

James grins and wraps him in a lazy hug, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Worth it.”

+

**Author's Note:**

> i'll be honest: i sat down two hours ago and plunked out the entire last half of this. it is literally 100% unedited i'm so sorry
> 
> come say hi on tumblr anytime @[shotgunmessiahs](https://shotgunmessiahs.tumblr.com) !!! happy halloween !!!


End file.
